


Anniversary

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John happens upon Sherlock and Lestrade in the kitchen one morning, and learns something he never knew about his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt at the _Sherlock_ Rare Pairs Fest](http://sherlockrare.livejournal.com/814.html?thread=17198#t17198), which asked for oblivious!John.

One thing John couldn’t understand about Sherlock Holmes was the man’s ability to misplace _everything_ he touched. Sherlock pretended it was on purpose - because God forbid he should ever appear _human_ and legitimately forget something - but in reality he just couldn’t be bothered to store such trivial details on his hard drive of a mind. And, John was privately convinced, everything in 221B was so bloody terrified of what might become of them should Sherlock get his hands on them that they up and scurried away whenever he was in the flat. Defense mechanisms and all.

Which was why, at six in the morning, John was hunting around for his laptop. He needed to check his emails before work, and if he didn’t find it in the next ten minutes, he was going to be pounding on Sherlock’s door and demanding to use _his_ laptop for once, never mind that the detective had finally given in to exhaustion last night after working on a case for Lestrade that had kept him occupied for better part of the week.

But he detected the low rumble of Sherlock’s voice even before he came down from his room to search the common area, and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d secretly hated the thought of perhaps having to wake Sherlock, even if he had been a prat lately (screw that: was a prat _all the time_ ), because he got too damn little sleep as it was.

John was surprised, though, when he stepped into the living room and realized that Sherlock was actually talking to someone present in the flat, rather than on his mobile - there were two distinct voices coming from the kitchen. John glanced through the partly-open door, curious to see who else was in the flat at this hour.

Lestrade was sitting on the counter, a mug of something (probably coffee) in his hands, his legs crossed at the ankles. Sherlock was sitting at the table, facing him, leaning his chair back on two legs while he blew across the surface of his hot tea. They hadn’t noticed John come into the living room, and, against his better judgment, he paused for a moment to watch.

Both men were rumpled from sleep - Lestrade’s hair was defying gravity in new and alarming ways and Sherlock was wearing an unfamiliar cotton tee in addition to his pajama bottoms. It was some sizes too large for him and hung loosely on his thin frame, giving his body a distinctly soft appearance as opposed to its normal sharp lines and angles. It was odd, seeing him in something other than his designer outfits or expensive silk dressing gown; it took years off his already-young face and John caught a glimpse of what Sherlock-as-a-teenager might have looked like.

John shook his head and resumed his search for his laptop. Sherlock had solved Lestrade’s latest case last night before crashing, but perhaps else something urgent had come up in the intervening hours, after John had gone to bed. That would more than explain Lestrade’s presence this morning - he had been known to stay over during the very worst of cases, though that was usually because he passed out from exhaustion on the sofa. But the thing was, it didn’t _look_ like there was a new case on. John chanced a glance back into the kitchen. They were still sitting there, shoulders loose and drooped as they cradled their mugs, no sign of tension in the way they held themselves or in the lines on Lestrade’s face.

“I heard from Cynthia yesterday,” he heard Lestrade say finally to Sherlock. John moved aside the cushions on the sofa. No sign of his laptop.

“Mm,” Sherlock replied.

“Said she wanted to see me,” Lestrade went on. “That there was something important we needed to discuss.”

“And you’re an idiot, because you believed her,” Sherlock rumbled finally. John frowned. _Cynthia?_ Had she been a suspect in one of their recent cases? He couldn’t recall. But why would a suspect be calling Lestrade directly?

“No, I don’t believe her,” Lestrade said calmly. “But I _am_ meeting up with her.” There was a pause while he drank from his mug. “We were married fifteen years; I think I owe her at least that much.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“So you know.”

“Ah.”

John heard Lestrade chuckle. He went over to the bookcase to pretend to search for something there. In actuality, he was too intrigued by the conversation in the kitchen and wanted a better vantage point.

“You haven’t a thing to worry about, you know.”

“Do I look worried?” Sherlock retorted.

“Yes,” Lestrade said immediately, and took another sip of his drink. “You do.”

Sherlock scowled and turned his attention to his tea. John frowned to himself and turned his gaze to the ancient spines of the books on the shelf at his eye-level, thinking hard. Why would Sherlock care if Lestrade was meeting up with his ex-wife? For that matter, why would Lestrade bother telling Sherlock in the first place? It hardly seemed like relevant information for almost-colleagues to share with one another.

“Oh,” Lestrade said suddenly, breaking John from his thoughts, “I nearly forgot. I have something for you.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him, John saw as he chanced another glance at the kitchen.

“‘cept you’ll have to get up off your bony arse to get it,” Lestrade said, and there was a teasing lilt in his voice. Sherlock sighed, set aside his tea, and got to his feet. John felt his eyebrows shoot high into his hairline. Sherlock _never_ did anything he asked - ever. And now he was following Lestrade’s requests without even the slightest of protests.

John didn’t think it was possible to be this confused, and wondered for a moment if he had fallen into an alternate reality.

“Check the pockets of my jacket,” Lestrade continued, smirking over the rim of his mug before taking another sip. Sherlock frowned, and fished through the jacket hanging off the back of the chair closest to Lestrade. He pulled out an envelope and then leaned against the counter by Lestrade’s side, examining it but not opening just yet. “You won’t figure it out just by looking at it.”

“I don’t think you get to be the judge of that, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, but nonetheless slid his finger into the slit and split the envelope open along the top edge. He pulled out what appeared to be two pieces of paper. His eyes widened. “Where did you get these?”

Lestrade’s smirk broadened into a smile, and he shook his head. Sherlock pushed himself off the counter in order to stand in front of Lestrade and wave the pieces of paper under his nose.

“These tickets are _impossible_ to obtain.”

“Impossible’s a relative term, don’t you think?” Lestrade said smugly. “I’d say...obtaining them is _improbable_. Not impossible, as you can see.”

He unhooked his legs and reached out to snag Sherlock’s shirt, pulling him in by the hips until he was pressed against the counter and Lestrade’s chest. Lestrade stole a kiss from the man, who looked as stunned as John felt, and hooked his left leg around the back of Sherlock’s to hold him in place.

“But how -”

“Let me put it this way - you’re not the only one with the British Government on speed dial,” Lestrade said with a smirk.

“I -” But Sherlock didn’t get any further than that, because Lestrade leaned forward and swallowed the rest of his words in another kiss. John was staring openly now, and didn’t care if they knew. It was quite obvious, though, that they weren’t paying the slightest attention to anything but one another.

“And just so we’re clear, it’s most certainly _not_ an anniversary gift,” Lestrade continued as they broke apart. “Because I know you hate such occasions. Today just _happens_ to be the date on which we were married, but I assure you that’s a coincidence.”

John’s mind slammed to a halt at that sentence. _Married?_

“...impossible,” Sherlock was saying when John's brain started comprehending information again, and as John watched Lestrade chuckled and drew him in for another kiss.

“It’s good to know I can still surprise you,” Lestrade said when he pulled away.

“I admit,” Sherlock said reluctantly, “that you are the only one capable of managing it on a regular basis.”

“Is that why you married me, then?” Lestrade asked, hopping off the counter. He held up a hand. “No, wait, actually, I don’t think I want to know the answer to that.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock breathed. “You know perfectly well why I married you.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I do. Still can’t believe it, though, sometimes.”

“Do I need to show you?” Another kiss, this one ending with a rather obscene flick of the tongue against Lestrade’s lower lip.

“Mm. I wish. Unfortunately, I’m due at the Yard in an hour, and I’m in dire need of a shower. See you at eight?”

“Of course.”

Lestrade moved away, back down the hallway toward Sherlock’s room, and the detective gathered both their mugs and placed them in the sink.

“Oh, and John?” he called without turning around. John sighed, and held in his curse at being caught.

“Yeah?”

“You can keep the ‘married to my work’ jokes to yourself.”

  



End file.
